The Greatest Case of Them All
by daemonfamiliar
Summary: Love might be a mystery to Sherlock, but John is always willing to help him solve the case. Fluffy JohnLock drabbles.
1. Please

Chapter One: Please

The first time Sherlock noticed it, he did something completely uncharacteristic: he doubted his own judgment. It was simply too absurd. John Watson was quite securely straight, something John had stated quite a few times to the numerous people who had gotten the wrong idea about the flatmates. Thus, Sherlock could not be the recipient of the strange expressions that kept flickering across John's face. The first few times it happened, Sherlock actually looked around as though expecting to find an attractive woman hiding somewhere in their flat, or at least a lingerie commercial on the telly or a porn mag on the table. He cannot find any such women, however, and Sherlock is forced to come to the only conclusion he has left.

Before he truly believed it, however, Sherlock first ran a few small experiments. One evening he stretched languorously, his tight shirt drifting up to reveal several inches of his abdomen. Sure enough, there's the look. The next morning, he bent slowly at the waist to retrieve a container of kidney stones from the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. When he straightened, he caught the look before John hurriedly returned his eyes to his newspaper. Sometime later, he exited the bathroom, still damp, with naught but a smallish towel around his waist. There was most definitely a look.

With his unlikely theory proven, there was one more thing Sherlock had to do. He retreated into his mind palace, lingering there for almost two days while he self-analyzed. He was vaguely aware that John was worried and confused, unused to Sherlock withdrawing in this fashion when there was no case to contemplate, but he knew he could not face his flatmate while burdened with this new knowledge until he understood exactly how this information made him feel.

He had already known he was attracted to John – he had known that almost as long as he had known his flatmate – and the idea of a relationship with him was intriguing. But Sherlock had never really been in anything the average person was likely to describe as a relationship before, and he doubted he would be very good at it. Besides, Sherlock did like the status quo in their flat. He enjoyed having John as his close friend and, as he was uncertain how much of John's obvious attraction was apparent to John himself, he did not want to risk upsetting the balance of their friendship. If John approached him, he would agree to attempt a relationship, but John would have to be the instigator.

With the decision made, he returned to the present, much to John's relief, and continued as though nothing had changed. John still looked longingly at Sherlock when he thought Sherlock wouldn't notice, and perhaps Sherlock went out of his way occasionally to attract the look, but otherwise, life in 221B went on like normal. It may have done so ad infinitum if it hadn't been for one thing.

Sherlock got kidnapped.

* * *

It didn't take Sherlock long to conclude that being kidnapped was horribly boring. His captors were thorough, if a bit dull, and Sherlock was quite securely tied to a chair in some dreary basement. Even the cause of his current predicament was boring. He had connected a recent murder to a local politician, one Henry Beauregard. Beauregard had found him investigating his house and had seized him in an attempt to convince Sherlock not only to hide his role in the crime, but also to frame a rival politician in his place. It was all very boring. Beauregard's lackeys had roughed him up occasionally in an effort to convince him to cooperate, but luckily they weren't very creative about their methods of persuasion.

While he sat stiff and aching in his wooden chair, Sherlock also realized that he needed to improve his communication habits, if not with Lestrade, then at least with John. He hadn't even told anyone who his main suspect had been before he had gone haring off to find hard evidence, too impatient to wait until John got done with his shift at the hospital. After witnessing the consequences of the last time he had died, Sherlock really wished to avoid putting John through that kind of anguish again. He told himself he would stop rushing into things with no backup. It struck him as strange that he felt the need to be more careful about his own life as a result of someone else caring for him, but it was clearly true. Especially now that he better understood exactly how important his life was to John.

He tried to remember how long he'd been in the basement. Had it been three days yet? Beauregard had informed Sherlock soon after his capture that if he didn't agree to his terms by the end of the third day, the politician would get rid of the only thing that could tie him to the murder: Sherlock.

There was suddenly a racket upstairs, which drew Sherlock's head inexorably upwards. The man guarding him was on his feet with his weapon drawn, looking nervously towards the stairs. Then the door burst open, flooding the dim room with light, and the man at the foot of the stairs went down at almost the same moment. A small smile twitched Sherlock's lips. No one in the Yard could shoot like that.

And then John was in front of him, his blue eyes telling Sherlock exactly how worried John had been for him.

"Sherlock!" he gasped, gently cupping Sherlock's bruised face in his hands. "How badly are you hurt?"

"John," Sherlock murmured, low and soothing as John scrabbled at the ropes. "I'm fine, John. All of my injuries are superficial." The doctor flung his hands away with a curse before pulling a knife out of his back pocket and parting the bindings with a precise downward movement.

John slipped an arm around Sherlock's back and helped him to stand. He steadied Sherlock as the detective swayed on his feet and opened his mouth as if to say something, but then Lestrade was there, along with half the Yard, and they were herding Sherlock toward the medics.

Sherlock sat patiently while the medics taped him up and John hovered at his shoulder like an anxious sentinel. Something about the doctor still seemed a little unstable and Sherlock wished to avoid setting him off, at least until they got home. After what seemed like an eternity, they were finally entering 221B, Sherlock walking just fine on his own now that he had worked out most of the stiffness from being held immobile for so long.

The door swung shut with an ominous click and Sherlock prepared himself for the inevitable explosion. He looked at his flatmate, waiting for a rant or a lecture of some kind. What he wasn't expecting was for John to pounce on him, pushing him towards the sofa. Confused, Sherlock allowed himself to be shoved onto the cushions. The doctor's fingers ran over his face, checking the work of the medics, then through his hair, searching his scalp for additional injuries. When none made themselves known, the fingers traveled back down, under Sherlock's chin and across his neck.

"John, really, I'm fine, you don't have to…" Sherlock began, before trailing off as some part of his brain told him to be quiet and let John do what he needed to. John's fingers continued as if he didn't hear the words. When his explorations were interrupted by the collar of Sherlock's shirt, John wasted no time in removing it. Sherlock winced as a button went flying, but the shirt was already ruined beyond salvaging. The deft hands ran over his shoulders, across his chest, then down his stomach. The fingers had curled in the waistband of Sherlock's trousers when they suddenly froze.

John's startled blue gaze drifted slowly up from the fingers clenched around his flatmate's clothing and up his naked upper body until they were blinking into Sherlock's eyes, clearly wondering how they had ended up in this position. Then they traveled back down, as if they didn't quite believe what they were seeing. He seemed about to repeat the sequence when his eyes noticed the obvious tenting in Sherlock's trousers and flew back to Sherlock's face.

That was quite enough of that, Sherlock decided. It was time they did something about this. "John," he rasped, surprised by the harshness of his own voice. "Don't stop. Please."

* * *

John's head was spinning. He was pretty sure he should be embarrassed that he had just practically stripped his flatmate, but his brain was confused by numerous conflicting emotions. There were the fading dredges of worry from the three long days that Sherlock had been missing, the extreme relief of having him safely home and relatively unharmed, and the absolute shock at what he had just been doing, not to mention the amazement caused by the bulge looming right in front of his nose. He might have just run away and buried his head in the sand for a few days while he tried to work through it all, except then Sherlock said something completely out of character.

He said _please_.

Taking a deep breath, John wrenched his gaze up from Sherlock's groin and took a moment to really look at his friend. He knew what he was seeing in that familiar face, although the expression seemed almost alien on his aloof flatmate. Sherlock had taught him how to read the signs of desire in someone, and they were all there. There was also anxiety. In a flash of clarity, John knew it wasn't what they were doing that was worrying Sherlock, but the idea that John might somehow reject him. Still, John needed to hear his consent out loud.

"Are you sure, Sherlock?" he asked. "Everything will change if we do this."

The detective snorted a little, making John smile. Of course he was sure. Sherlock never said anything he didn't mean. He removed his hands from Sherlock's waistband, but before Sherlock could doubt his intentions, he moved closer. Bracing himself on the back of the sofa, John straddled Sherlock's lap, bringing his clothed chest flush against his friend's bare one. It was a rush just being so close to this usually untouchable man. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls again, this time just for the sake of feeling their softness, and he clung there for a moment, so very glad that Sherlock was all right. Sherlock's arms came around John's back and held him firmly. For several long minutes the two remained completely still, simply breathing in each other's presence.

Then John leaned back just a fraction and, minding the bruises, cupped that refined face in his hands. His lowered his head, ignoring the small part of his brain that was screaming that the moment his lips touched Sherlock's, he could no longer call himself straight. Then their mouths connected and that voice went blissfully silent, along with all of John's other thoughts. Sherlock's hands slid from John's back to his hips, grasping them tightly. Sherlock's mouth was warm against John's, his tongue doing wicked things to the inside of his mouth, and John's hands moved to clutch at Sherlock's shoulders. One long-fingered hand drifted around and a palm pressed firmly into John's own burgeoning bulge, forcing John to break the kiss long enough to gasp raggedly.

He took the moment to admire how beautiful Sherlock looked like this, his cheeks flushed and his eyes dark with pleasure. Then John pulled away and got shakily to his feet. Concern flickered across Sherlock's face before John reached out to seize his hand and pull him up as well.

"Come along, Holmes," he told his friend. "If we're going to do this, we're going to do it properly, not rutting on the couch like a couple of teenagers." Then he dragged the taller man towards his bedroom, his mind flooded with delightful possibilities.

Maybe he would even be able to make him say _please_ again.


	2. I Would

Chapter Two: I Would

John was woken the next morning by Sherlock's phone. He reached out a hand instinctively to fumble for it and encountered warm skin instead. His eyes flew open to find a very naked Sherlock lounging on his side, a sheet just barely clinging to his hips. He looked like he'd been awake for a while, his eyes studying John intently. John realized he was also quite naked, himself. Before his drowsy brain could work up a good blush, Sherlock rolled his body to cover John's, the sheet a forgotten memory, and all of John's blood was busy flowing southward instead.

"Good morning," Sherlock greeted, his voice gravelly with sleep.

"Morning," John breathed. The phone buzzed incessantly on the nightstand. "Aren't you going to get that? It could be a case."

"Boring," Sherlock grumbled, but he reached for the phone anyway. He brought it to his ear, his face only inches from John's. "What?" he asked into the phone. John was close enough to tell the voice on the other end was indeed Lestrade's, though he couldn't make out the exact words. "Fine, we'll be there." He snapped the phone closed as he added, "Eventually," and swooped down to steal a kiss from John.

* * *

They did make it the crime scene. Eventually. Lestrade was waiting for them at the entrance to a townhouse that was cordoned off by police tape.

"You two sure took your… oh. Well."

John tried to look both himself and Sherlock over inconspicuously to see what had made the Detective Inspector stop and eye them critically. Their clothes were properly arranged, there were no obvious love bites. Perhaps Sherlock's expression was not quite as stern as usual, and John did have a ridiculous grin spread across his face that he couldn't manage to shake… John's thoughts trailed off hopelessly. Fuck it, they were completely obvious and Lestrade was DI for a reason, no matter what Sherlock said about him.

Shaking his head, Lestrade dropped his arms. "Congratulations, I suppose. It's about bloody time. Now go and put your giant brain to use, if it hasn't turned into soppy mush yet," he told Sherlock, ushering the two past the tape.

Sherlock sniffed and headed straight upstairs, leaving John to stutter, "We. Well. Um. Thanks, I suppose," his ears noticeably pink.

Lestrade shook his head again, but he was smiling slightly. "Come on, loverboy. Let's see what your genius boyfriend has deduced so far."

John started up the stairs and was about to round the corner into the victim's flat when he heard familiar voices. Something about them made him pause. He peered around the corner to see Donovan and Anderson standing just a few feet away, watching Sherlock work.

"No, really," Donovan was saying to Anderson, her hands propped on her hips and her eyes narrowed. "He looks… mellowed, somehow, don't you think? You know what you look like, Freak?" she continued, her voice raised slightly for Sherlock's benefit. "You look like someone who's had a good shag." She used the insulting moniker almost offhandedly, most of the venom gone since Sherlock's dramatic return from the dead, but it still bothered John.

Anderson snorted. "Sherlock? Yeah, right. Who in the world would sleep with Sherlock?"

That was quite enough of that, John decided.

"I would," he announced conversationally as he entered the room. He crossed the floor, carefully skirting the sprawled body, and entwined his fingers with Sherlock's. When the detective looked down at him, surprised, John stretched up to press a kiss in the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "What did I miss?" he asked, ignoring the gaping duo by the door.

"Not much. Time of death, Watson?" Sherlock asked, his tone as brusque as always, but he seemed bemused. He then proceeded to drag John around the crime scene by their conjoined hands for the entirety of his examination.

John found he didn't mind one bit.


	3. The Yoga Incident

Chapter Three: The Yoga Incident

John stood in the entryway to the living room, flipping a silver disk self-consciously between his fingers as he debated with himself. Sherlock was planted on the sofa in his typical mind palace pose, back straight and hands steepled in front of his chin. He'd been this way for several hours and appeared to be thoroughly immersed in his thoughts.

Taking a deep breath, John steeled himself. Before he could change his mind, he crossed the room and popped the disk into the DVD player. He flinched as graceful piano music burst into the silence, but Sherlock didn't so much as blink. The perky blonde on the screen was almost done nattering through the introduction to the video, so John wrenched his attention away from his partner and tried to focus.

While John had been recovering from the injury he'd obtained in Afghanistan, his physical therapist had given him a list of exercises to do in order to loosen the muscles of his shoulder. Upon his discharge, he had been strictly informed that he needed to continue them on a regular basis to keep them from retightening. Then Sherlock had happened and all thoughts of doing anything that didn't involve chasing after the detective or slogging through his shifts at the hospital had fled his mind. By the time he'd noticed a regression in his mobility, he'd realized that he couldn't even remember what exercises he was supposed to be doing.

Lately, he had been battling an overall stiffness that seemed to start in his shoulder and radiate through the rest of his body. It worried him. With all the running and dodging and grappling he ended up doing while following Sherlock through his investigations meant he had to stay limber. One day it could make the difference him and Sherlock coming out of an encounter alive or… John cringed at the alternative. That's why he was now in front of the telly wearing an ancient pair of running shorts and a raggedy t-shirt, about to follow along with a yoga DVD he'd found in the sale bin of the supermarket.

He breathed in and out slowly before attempting to copy the movements of the girl on the screen. He moved through increasingly ridiculous-sounding poses, starting in Mountain, then changing to Tree, and then to Warrior. He tried to regulate his breathing with his movements and soon found himself relaxing. He could feel himself unwinding slowly as he stretched until everything else slipped away, even the presence of the brooding detective just behind him. Thus, he nearly fell on his face in surprise when Sherlock suddenly spoke.

"John, what on Earth are you doing?" the detective asked in a strained voice.

"Yoga?" John offered, confused, but remaining in his pose. It was unlike Sherlock to ask such an obvious question.

"Yes, but _why_?"

John sighed and hit pause on the remote at his feet before straightening out of "Forward Bend" and turning to look at his partner. Sherlock had abandoned his mind palace posture and was leaning forward, his expression aggravated, but his eyes intent.

"I've been feeling extra stiff lately," he explained, his self-consciousness reappearing and turning his ears red. He fiddled awkwardly with the frayed edges of too-small shorts, which drew Sherlock's eyes downward as if they had been magnetized. "I don't want to slow you down on a case, so I'm trying to work out some of the kinks."

Instantly, the agonized expression on Sherlock's face vanished, replaced by absolute seriousness. The detective sighed deeply before giving John a sharp nod.

"Carry on, then," was all he said as he straightened again and plugged himself back in to his contemplation.

John waited a moment to make sure the interruption was really over before pressing play. He tried to clear his mind of the hungry way Sherlock had eyed him and the small burst of triumph that he'd actually found something that could distract Sherlock from his thoughts, if only for a moment.

He slowly got back into the rhythm of the movements. Everything was quiet except for the instructor's soothing voice and John's measured breathing. Then John stretched himself into "Downward-Facing Dog."

"For fuck's sake!" Sherlock burst out unexpectedly.

"What's wrong?" John asked in concern, peering at Sherlock between his legs. Sherlock never cursed.

"What's wrong, he asks," Sherlock muttered darkly. He sprang off the couch and stalked towards the door. "I am going into the bedroom," he declared before disappearing.

John blinked after him and then a smile slowly spread across his face. It was quite a rush, getting under Sherlock's skin like that, especially when it was completely unintentional. Apparently, all it took was some suggestive stretches paired with a set of tiny shorts. He was about to return his attention to the video when Sherlock stuck his head back into the living room, glowering.

"Come _along_, Watson," he demanded, pointing towards the bedroom.

Oh. He hadn't realized he'd been expected to follow Sherlock. He'd figured Sherlock had been seeking a place devoid of Johns doing yoga in which to think.

Which meant John had completely snapped Sherlock out of his mind palace.

He hadn't realized that was possible. He'd been pretty certain a bomb could go off in the flat and Sherlock wouldn't notice if he was immersed in his mind palace. It made John feel indescribably powerful.

"But I'm not done yet," he protested half-heartedly.

"Far be it from me to stop you," Sherlock replied. "You can feel free to continue, as long as you do so in here." He shook his finger at the bedroom again. "Some of those positions had… _possibilities._"

Well, when he put it that way. John found himself at Sherlock's side in half a breath, ignoring the video wrapping up without him. Obviously, the yoga was working, he thought, pleased with himself. He was feeling much more sprightly already.


	4. Partners

Chapter Four: Partners

"I'm John Watson and this is my partner Sherlock Holmes," John was saying to their current witness. Their newest case had taken place in the middle of a crowded park, meaning lots of witnesses to question, all of which had mysteriously seen absolutely nothing.

Sherlock fixed John with a narrow stare. The doctor had been saying that a lot since the start of their more intimate relationship. Before, it had just been, "I'm John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes."

"Why do you keep calling us that?" Sherlock finally asked after John had thanked the useless so-called witness and had turned away to search for the next one.

"What?" John gave him a confused look.

"Why do you keep referring to me as your partner?"

"Oh." John colored slightly. "Well, we're _something_, right? It's just that 'boyfriend' seems far too immature for what we haveand 'lover' is a little too explicit. 'Partner' just seemed to fit better. We're partners in crime solving, in a relationship, in life, really." His blush darkened and he scrubbed his hands over his face. "That was way too cheesy, wasn't it?"

Sherlock considered the idea seriously, then reached out with gentle fingers to pry John's wrists away from his face. "No, I believe your right. 'Partners' fits us just fine." John offered him a shy smile and linked his hand with Sherlock' two headed towards the next set of witnesses and Sherlock took the lead, anxious to try out the new term.

"Good afternoon, ladies," he said to the pair of elderly women waiting for them. "I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my partner John Watson."

Both sets of wrinkle-bracketed eyes widened and the ladies tittered in delighted shock, their meaty hands clasped over their mouths. John's dark blush returned, but he listened to their statements with a determined and long-suffering expression. As soon as the ladies departed, still giggling, Sherlock turned on John.

"What?" he demanded. "I said exactly the same thing you said!"

"You said the same words," John agreed, sounding torn between amusement and embarrassment, "but your tone was far more... suggestive." Before Sherlock could argue, John shook his head and smiled. "It was fine, Sherlock. You don't have to change anything. I'm not embarrassed to be in a relationship with you. Besides, you can't help that everything that comes out of your mouth is suggestive."

Sherlock gave John his most affronted look. "It is not."

A small smile quirked the corner of John's mouth. "It is for me. Your voice is like liquid sex. That's the only reason you get away with saying half of the outrageous things that come out of your mouth - I'm too distracted by your tone."

Sherlock's desire to continue arguing was overrode by the interesting connotations of that statement. "So what if were to talk to you explicitly while we were having sex? Would you enjoy that?'

"Dear God, Sherlock!" John groaned before grabbing both of Sherlock's arms and propelling him towards the next witness.

Sherlock took that to mean "yes."


	5. The Massage

Chapter Five: The Massage

John woke up alone, which wasn't unusual. What was unusual was that fact that he woke up on his own. No violin, no explosions, and eight minutes left before his alarm went off. It was rather nice. He stretched and padded barefoot to the kitchen to make some tea.

He found Sherlock on the sofa in his dressing gown, John's laptop nestled in his lap.

"Morning," John greeted as he filled the teapot. Sherlock grunted in reply. "What are you up to today?" Another grunt. John simply smiled, chugged his tea, and dropped a kiss on Sherlock's sharp cheekbone on his way out the door.

* * *

Sherlock was still there when he trudged back into the apartment at 5:45. He didn't look to have moved. Shaking his head, John headed for the bedroom to change clothes.

He stopped short in the bedroom doorway. "What's all this, then?" John he asked over his shoulder. The bed was draped with their oldest sheets and candles flickered in odd places around the room.

When he looked behind him, Sherlock was there as suddenly as if he'd teleported from the sofa, a saucepan of clear liquid in his hands. He nudged John the rest of the way into the bedroom before answering.

"The Yoga Incident got me thinking," Sherlock told him as he pushed the door closed with his foot. His phrasing made the words sound capitalized and John grinned. He would not soon forget the Yoga Incident, either. "Before that, I had not realized how much your shoulder still pained you. Thus, I spent the day researching methods of message in order to help relieve your discomfort." He set the pot down on the bedside table and dipped two of his fingers into the liquid to test the temperature.

John blinked at him. "You did what now?"

"You heard me. Strip, John."

Well, John was never one to ignore that command. He shucked his clothes quickly and looked back at Sherlock for further direction. Those unfathomable eyes were staring piercingly at his body, as though attempting to assess the condition of his muscles from across the room. John stifled the unreasonable urge to cover himself beneath the penetrating gaze.

"On your stomach," Sherlock ordered, gesturing towards the bed. John did as instructed, bending his elbows and pillowing his head on his interlocked hands. He felt the bed dip as Sherlock moved to straddle him. A quick craning of his neck confirmed that Sherlock was disappointingly still fully clothed before a gentle hand pressed his neck back down.

Sherlock reached into the pot and then smoothed warm oil across the back of John's neck, over his shoulders, down the backs of his arms, and then back up again to cover his back. John felt himself relaxing under the sure strokes. He smiled a little, knowing only Sherlock could devote less than a full day to learning a skill off the internet that most people devoted their lives to and be absolutely confident in the application of it. Then Sherlock's fingers were moving in firm circles on the back of his neck and John stopped thinking about anything more complicated than the sensations he was feeling.

The fingers then move down his back, working out the tension on either side of his spine before drifting back up. They took a detour at John's shoulder blades, the pad of Sherlock's thumb digging into John's bad shoulder. A ragged groan dropped from John's mouth at the unique pleasure/pain that only a thorough massage could produce, but Sherlock never hesitated. He showed the shoulder no mercy, seeking out every knot and obliterating them.

Since Sherlock had specifically mentioned John's old injury, he'd expected him to stop there, but it was soon obvious Sherlock was far from done. He took his time with John's body, touching every inch as he massaged down the lengths of both of his arms, then back up and around until his knuckles were digging into the small of John's back. John had long since turned into a puddle of happy flesh, but he perked up a little when Sherlock smoothed the oil over his arse. The detective's strokes were almost clinical in their movements, however, soon drifting down to the back of his thighs. John had never even realized those muscles needed attention, and his calves even more so. By the time Sherlock tried to roll him over, all John could manage was an undignified flop.

Then the detective started again, working the sides of John's neck, then down the fronts of his shoulders and arms. Even John's hands got individual attention before Sherlock worked back up to John's chest and across his stomach. As those long fingers wandered down his thighs, John noticed almost vaguely that he was hard. It was an odd kind of arousal, empty of urgency, and John was willing to simply bask in the pleasure offered. Sherlock kneaded the fronts of John's thighs and ended with a foot massage that left John sighing, his eyes closing in bliss.

Then Sherlock's fingers traveled back up and John could immediately tell their intentions had changed. An oil-slick hand wrapped around his cock and John arched into it, never even opening his eyes. It only took a few strokes, with John unable to do much more than gasp and moan as he spilled over Sherlock's fingers. He had never had an orgasm that had felt lazy before, but that was the only word he could think of for this one. It was glorious.

John dozed in a boneless heap, not even noticing that Sherlock had gone until he returned with a couple of warm, damp flannels. He used one to clean up the sticky mess on John's stomach and the other to remove the majority of the oil from John's skin. John's eyelids were on the brink of drifting shut again when he happened to catch notice of the bulge in Sherlock's pants as the tall detective leaned over him.

"Sherlock," he mumbled, seeming unable to say anything else, one hand reaching towards his partner. Perching on the edge of the bed, Sherlock squeezed John's uplifted fingers in one hand and used the other to draw one of the old sheets over John's body.

"Rest now, John. I wanted this evening to be about helping you relax and it pleases me that I appear to have done an adequate job. Stop resisting sleep. There will be time enough later for you to please me." He pressed a kiss to John's forehead and then rose, giving John's hand one last squeeze before he was gone again.

And then John slept the most restful, dreamless sleep he could ever remember sleeping.


End file.
